It was the first day of classes. Hermione had spent the weekend sitting in the common room with Dean as he got to know the other Gryffindor boys or hiding out in her dorm and rereading her texts again.

As well as Dean, another muggleborn had been Sorted into Gryffindor: Sophie Roper. She and Hermione were both somewhat relieved to share a dorm though they had never gotten on horribly well in the past; they had lived together for nigh on seven years and it would make the transition easier.

Her very first class was with Professor McGonagall. She followed along the castle as best as she could and sat at a seat in the front. The class slowly filled with students all of whom initially fell silent, then realized there was no professor, and only after that realized there was a lovely tabby cat on the desk in front of them. Hermione had a suspicion based on the unique eye markings of the cat that it was her professor and the woman was an animagus. She had read about them in a fictional mystery that had been donated to the muggleborns.

Her suspicion was proven correct when the two boys she'd spoken to before Sorting entered the classroom late thinking they were free from reprimand only for the cat to leap toward them and transform into their professor in the middle of it. The class collectively gasped while Hermione mentally patted herself on the back.

"Consider this your only warning: tardiness will not be tolerated in my classroom," said the woman.

"Yes, professor," chorused the two wide-eyed boys who then took the final seats open, which happened to be near Hermione.

She found out during roll call that they were Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley; the pair of them seemed to be friends from what she could tell. Hermione envied how easily they interacted and wished Dean had sat toward the front of the class with her. Alas, it was not in his personality to do so.

The only way the class could have gone better was if it had not been with the Slytherins, who hissed when she gained points, though Professor McGonagall threatened to take points off them if they continued after they did it a second time.

Defense was next, followed by lunch. She sat with Sophie and Dean then. "How are you liking classes?" she asked.

"They're all like classes at the Home," said Dean.

Hermione frowned at him. "What do you mean? We're learning magic."

"He means," said Sophie, "that you're answering every question."

She blushed a deep red when Dean nodded. "I'm just excited," she said sheepishly, her shoulders rising.

"And I'm teasing," said Dean. "Anyway, they're not bad."

"Not bad," she repeated and shook her head in disbelief.

Their next class wound up being her least favorite because the professor didn't at all care about whether the Slytherins hissed at her. In fact, he seemed to think they could do no wrong. It made sense as he was their Head of House.

"Put your hand down, Miss Granger. Your arm is likely to shoot off if you keep up in that manner," drawled Professor Snape and all the Slytherins and half the Gryffindors laughed. For the remainder of the double lesson Hermione did not speak again and she hung her head over her parchment in embarrassment.

"If she weren't such a know-it-all maybe someone would like her." She overheard it as she was going to their first flying lesson, the only class she wasn't eager for. It was Ronald Weasley, the redhead who looked at her as though she were some strange creature.

Hermione was not the only one who overheard it. "Oi," called Dean. "Hermione got us a load of points today. Also, she might be a know-it-all, but she helps all her friends with their schoolwork."

"That's right, you're a muggleborn, too," said Ron.

"What about it?"

Harry touched Ron's arm. "There's nothing wrong with being a muggleborn. He just means that you know Hermione and are biased about her." Ron looked bewildered for a second, then thoughtful, and then nodded.

"Right, well, it's the exact opposite, mate. Living with her for seven years, I know everything bad about her," said Dean, and Hermione almost fled from her spot a few feet behind the boys. "But I can also tell you that she's a good friend and works hard for her marks despite being a genius. You might wanna lighten up on her, yeah?"

The three boys all exchanged long glances before Ron nodded again. "Yeah, alright."

Hermione sighed in relief and they all commenced walking again.

Hermione slowly became used to walking through the hall enough that she would wake up early to eat breakfast and get a start on her reading. It was for that reason she overheard a strange and slightly foolish snippet.

"It's funny to imagine that we're pissing in the same pot as Merlin himself." It was a tall blond boy who said it, his shorter and round-faced friend laughing along.

Hermione couldn't help herself. "Actually," she said, straightening up as she was about to impart knowledge, "the toilets weren't installed until the eighteenth century. Before that, wizards went where they were and Vanished the result. As Merlin was one born in the medieval era, he would not have used toilets at all."

The two lads were staring at her and Hermione had the worst sense of deja vu.

Reluctantly, she added, "I read about it in Hogwarts: A History ."

The blond, whose visage had begun as fair as the driven snow, had roses on his cheeks as he stepped closer to her. "Aren't you that little Gryffindor mudblood?"

Her eyes widened; Hermione was familiar with the word. All of the muggborns were; it was whispered wherever they went in the wizarding world. However, it had never been spat in her face before. Her courage fled and terror stopped her in place.

"Yes, I think you are. A rude little thing, too, but I suppose they don't teach your kind manners. You will learn to speak more politely to your betters." The older boy surveyed her frozen form and nodded to himself. "Come, Crabbe."

When he turned his back to her again, Hermione's feet became unstuck and she swallowed, then said, "You can't speak to me that way. I'll tell your Head of House."

The blond glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, please do. I should love to hear what he does to you when you come snivelling to him like an infant with a wet nappy."

Hermione's hands curled into fists. "You're horrible."

The boy only laughed and continued walking away.

From nearby a girl Hermione recognized as being in her third year approached. "You know that's Draco Malfoy, don't you?"

Hermione frowned and shook her head. She had no idea who Draco Malfoy was or why he was important. "His is the wealthiest pureblood family and he's Professor Snape's godson, at least according to what I've heard."

"Er, is he?" she asked in a voice suddenly frail.

The girl nodded. "He's Snape's favorite student. All the fourth years kowtow to him."

If Hermione cursed she might have on that occasion. Instead, she rushed back to her dormitory and spent breakfast wishing she could disappear into the earth. How could she have made such a mistake in her first week of school?

She could only hope Draco Malfoy forgot the incident.

Hermione learned more about Draco Malfoy over the next month. She learned that he was top of his year despite the idiocy of the conversation she had overheard, and she also learned that he was the Slytherin Quidditch team Seeker. Hermione didn't care much for Quidditch but Dean was slowly developing a love for the game and she agreed to go and support Gryffindor whenever they played.

He was graceful in the air, there was no denying it. Draco Malfoy was a phenomenal flyer. By comparison the Gryffindor Seeker was terrible.

"That's a temp. They don't have a real Seeker yet and everyone at try-outs was apparently a bust," Dean told her as they watched the Snitch flutter past once more.

Hermione nodded. "First years can't try out, correct?" She didn't remember if it was an official rule or something more.

"That's right," he said. "Not sure why. I mean, I'm new at flying, but I know some of the purebloods were practically raised on a broom."

Hermione could see it with those like Draco Malfoy though the two boys she had learned were his best mates (more like goons in her opinion) Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle did not nearly have his grace.

Hermione spent much of the game watching him rather than the Gryffindor players, but there was something about him that called her to take notice. It was like he was a serpent she had happened upon in a garden and she needed to watch and see if he was venomous or whether he would bite. Every now and then it seemed like his pale grey eyes slid to her but she could have been imagining things; he might have just been looking in her general direction.

She shook the thought from her head and tried to focus on the game, but it was over soon enough anyway; Draco Malfoy caught the Snitch and Slytherin defeated Gryffindor.

There was a consolation party in the common room that evening. It seemed as though any excuse for a party would do, though it was subdued and the common room emptied out long before curfew.

Hermione formed a schedule around studying. In the mornings she would go to breakfast early in order to reflect on her itinerary for the day. She would pack her back in such a way it was easiest to reach the first class, then repack it at every break. During lunch she would begin notes and outlines for any work already assigned. If there was nothing then she looked forward to the next few classes. Sometimes she decided to get in just a little more revision.

After classes the true studying would begin. Hermione became a regular in the library and Madam Pince grew to trust her enough to up her allowance of books to check out at a time. Hermione's shoulders didn't appreciate the gift but she was grateful for access to more reading material at a time.

Hermione would often work until she had just long enough to scurry back to Gryffindor Tower and then would still read and make notes in bed for another hour or so before she succumbed to sleep.

This went on til her first Christmas at Hogwarts and then she woke to the wonder that was the day.

The muggleborns didn't do much to mark the occasion at the Home; there was a meal donated by the Ministry and the Matron read the little ones Yuletide stories. There was a Yule Log in the fire, but that was it. While there was not more at Hogwarts as such, it was still entirely more magical .

There were trees in their common room and in the Great Hall. Snow covered the grounds in glittering white; the Home was too much in the city for real snow to fall. The whole world seemed transformed by tinsel and mistletoe and garland. It didn't matter that the muggleborns didn't really have friends or families to send them gifts; being at Hogwarts was a gift to them.

The eight of them all chose to stay for the holidays. Why would they leave when Hogwarts was so much more welcoming? Some of the older muggleborns smiled and welcomed them in as though being among the minority in the castle was something that created a bond among them— yes, they were muggleborns, but it was as though they weren't truly Hogwarts students until they had experienced their first Christmas.

Hermione did not get on as well with the older students as the others but they still wished her a happy Christmas. And the muggleborns sat together when the separate tables were done away with and all the students and faculty were allowed to be together.

She nearly gasped when she saw the feast that awaited them that evening. There were pheasant and turkey, ham and lamb, roasts aplenty. Every type of vegetable was represented whether is was also roasted or mashed or steamed, put in stuffing, or served in stew. There were more kinds of bread than Hermione could name. Among the food and the decor were Christmas crackers. They seemed perfectly ordinary but when Professor Dumbledore pulled one with Professor Spinestra there was a cloud of smoke and then little white mice scurried at the end of the table. Dumbledore had beads around his neck and there was a gobstone board between them.

She and Dean exchanged a long look and then scrambled to grab the nearest cracker to share. Out of it came a golden paper crown which promptly went atop Dean's head, a chess set, and a few little candies Hermione knew nothing about.

The pudding course came with everything she could have imagined and more, from sticky toffee pudding to Yule Log cakes, crumbles and tarts as well.

She tried so many different foods, they had not even a third the variety at the Home, and soon her stomach was round and she was tired from day of festivities.

When Hermione slept that night it was to dreams of sweets and joy.

By the end of year exams it was well-known to anyone who paid half a mind to the first years that Hermione Granger was different. Yes, she was a bit of a know-it-all, but she was always right . At nearly every new spell she was the first to succeed and she retained the knowledge from her books with a near-eidetic memory. She could be trusted to follow directions and her work was too thorough. Essays were more often returned with parts crossed out for being unnecessarily in-depth or out-of-year knowledge.

Her classmates had mostly learned to accept it, at least among the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. The Ravenclaws were suspicious of why she wasn't with them if she was so gifted and the Slytherins generally hated anyone Gryffindor and muggleborn. That she was an outspoken girl only added to her sins.

"I swear Granger tries to be obnoxious." Hermione overheard her name in the library and though she knew it was wrong to eavesdrop she thought it was no worse than talking behind someone's back. Therefore, she listened without guilt. "She's always correcting pronunciation or offering to demonstrate the proper technique like she's a master after a single cast."

It was Daphne Greengrass, a Slytherin girl Hermione had not spoken to before but who had apparently formed opinions on her.

"I wish someone would just put her in her place," she said with a long-suffering sigh.

The voice that responded sent goosebumps tingling down her spine. She had only spoken with the person once, but Hermione remembered. "She's just a stuck-up little mudblood, darling. I'm sure your exams will be just as high."

"They say she'll beat your records, Draco." That confirmed it. Daphne Greengrass was talking to Draco Malfoy about her. "Some of the professors have compared her to Dumbledore, but I can see even they get tired of her trying so hard. I think she's overcompensating for her blood status."

"Her hair is also atrocious," Draco tacked on though Hermione did not know why he would think to mention it. It had nothing to do with the subject at hand!

Daphne giggled. "That's true. You'd think someone would take pity on her— oh! But she has no one who can stand her enough for that. She's absolutely friendless."

Hermione's heart pounded, blood a river in her ears as she strained to keep herself calm. It would not do to act out, especially not in the library, her usual haven.

"Well, unless you count books," Draco added. "She always has her nose stuck in one. Perhaps that's why; she knows no one wants anything to do with her, so she reads and pretends it makes up for her being a boorish, bookish, lowly thing."

"Thank you for listening to me, Draco," Daphne said after a moment.

"It's not a problem, darling. That's what I'm here for."

"You'll be a wonderful husband." Daphne sighed and then Hermione heard some shuffling around and footsteps walking away from the area. She put her head down on her arms, thinking about what she had just heard. So wrapped in thought she was that she didn't hear the scrape of a chair pushing away from a table or of leather soles padding across a rug.

"Did you enjoy listening to that, mudblood?"

Hermione jolted upright and the little hairs on her nape stood up as she realized Draco Malfoy was standing behind her. "I didn't—"

"Quiet. I already warned you about speaking to your betters, didn't I? Now I have to teach you that it's rude to eavesdrop. Turn around," he snapped.

Hermione slid to sit in her seat so that she could see him. He stood tall over her, gaze dark and cruel as they bored into her. "What you overheard was a private conversation between my fiance and I." At the widening of her eyes, he scoffed. "We're purebloods; we are often betrothed young. That's what happens when you are desirable." He stepped closer, almost close enough to touch. "You'll never know that. You will likely die a lonely old spinster."

"Better a spinster than marry someone I didn't choose," she whispered, unsure of where the courage bubbled up from.

His expression twisted. "What was that? You think marriage is a problem for me? I can still have any woman I want. It's no problem for me to have mistresses and sire bastards. Or did you imagine I would be tied down by my vows?" He stood straighter. "Malfoy men do as they please. It is Daphne who will bend to my will and not the other way around. If you weren't ignorant and ill-bred you would know that."

A blush stained her cheeks at the turn the conversation had taken. It was not a proper one for a girl of her age, let alone with an older boy.

"Whatever. I have better things to do than to keep teaching a worthless mudblood about things she'll never understand," he said after a moment. "Keep out of my business."

With that Malfoy turned and stalked away from her leaving behind a sad, confused girl who had only heard her name and thought to listen a little.